


A Place Without Expectation

by zuzeca



Series: Mikaela/Scorponok Partners AU [1]
Category: Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Spark Sex, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-23
Updated: 2012-09-23
Packaged: 2017-11-14 20:55:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuzeca/pseuds/zuzeca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-DOTM, Mikaela meets a fellow exile in the desert.  Written for the prompt: "Scorponok/Mikaela - Desert Highway" on the tf-rare-pairing LJ community.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Place Without Expectation

**Author's Note:**

> Just an old fic written for the tf-rare-pairing weekly challenge. It’s supposed to take place between ROTF and DOTM, and so contains a fair bit of speculation on what happens to Mikaela. Also it imagines that Scorponok did not in fact participate in the battle for Egypt, but rather remained buried in the sands of the Arabian Peninsula waiting for Blackout. For those interested, the terminal quote is taken from Nadine Gordimer’s _The Pickup_. Enjoy.
> 
> Disclaimer: All characters are property of their respective copyright holders. I am making no profit from this work of fiction.

The heat is a band across her chest.

It creeps into the folds of her clothing, smothering, all consuming. The crowd pulses and shifts around her. Men, in Western garb or the long white tunics that have been worn here for centuries. Women, veiled, moving quickly. And every eye drawn to her, conscious of the outsider in their midst.

Foreigner.

American. 

From one of the stalls a man beckons her. The walls bristle with silk, streamers in every color of the rainbow. He doesn’t speak English, but the gesture at her long, dark locks speaks volumes. Relenting, she hands over some local currency and accepts the swath of cloth. White, to reflect the desert sun.

A small woman emerges from the back of the stall and she submits to wrinkled hands which tuck her hair away and wind the scarf about her, slowly so she may repeat the process in the future. She straightens, the frail shield settling about her. Dark hair, dark eyes, from the neck up she can almost pass as one of them.

Almost.

Her small suitcase shifts against her body as she continues down the street. She can still feel their eyes on her, following the lines of her legs, but this hardly differs from home. She moves on.

A car rental service, embedded in the wall of a building. Large, clunky cars, meant to cater to the Western tourists who trickle through, looking to wreck engines on the dunes. The only entertainment this far from the ocean, in a land so rich in oil and so poor in everything else. She offers money. The man, bearded, gives a cursory glance to her license and guides her to one of the four wheel drives. White, it matches her scarf.

“Don’t you want a guide?” His accent is thick, “Sand driving is no joke, especially for the inexperienced.”

She accepts the keys, but rather than firing up the engine, she pops the hood. She senses the man shift beside her, a twitch of surprise and she hides a smile as she runs a passing check of the car’s vital components. Once she’s satisfied it won’t burn out beneath her, she slips into the driver’s seat.

“Don’t worry. It’s not the first time I’ve driven on sand.” She glances at the gauges, “Got any extra fuel I can buy?”

A few more dollars and he hoists a couple of full plastic jugs into the hatchback. She takes off across the open road, falling easily into the rhythm of shifting gears, heading for the heart of the desert. The heat presses in around her, but the air conditioning is glitchy, so she makes do with the internal fans. Sweat trickles down her neck. The white sand is blinding through her dark glasses.

Her body is occupied, but the simple, preprogrammed movements give her mind free reign, and she’s not sure that’s such a good thing.

She starts to regret coming here. When they’d offered it to her, _paid vacation_ , they’d been expecting her to choose Fiji, one of the Caribbean islands sprinkled like jewels across the gulf. London or Paris or Tokyo.

If she is honest with herself, she picked this dried out country to shock them, to force them to acknowledge the trip for what it is: an exile. Her grandmother, a dim memory, old and vast, her father imprisoned for the first time _And the children of Israel did eat manna forty years…_ Her self-righteous imaginings of wandering in the desert seem so needlessly dramatic now.

It’s really far simpler than it would seem. Once upon a time, a boy met an alien, and got involved in an intergalactic war. And those close to him were brought into that war as well, and learned of many things. Things which make governments nervous. 

Information, classified.

But governments don’t take into account the fickleness of the human heart, the shifting bonds between people. Don’t account for the fact that hardly ever is a boy’s first girlfriend also his last.

And so she is here. Distance, to give her time to heal, to keep her safe.

To keep her out of the way.

She should have seen it coming. Sam is smart, and his encounters with the Autobots have catapulted him squarely into the governmental spotlight. The would-be college dropout now speaks a language she barely understands, an acronym soup of _Ph.D.s_ and _federal employment_.

She is the first person in her family to graduate high school.

And on a purely fanciful level, it makes sense. The unlikely hero who saves the world ends up with the princess, not the grease monkey’s daughter. Even if that princess is a blond MIT graduate with tits as false as her degree.

She’s being unfair; the breasts are probably real.

Weary of her mind’s endless grinding gears, she turns off the paved road and onto the expanse of the dunes, trusting the treacherous slip and slither of the sand to keep her on her toes, to silence the replay of half-remembered screaming matches and worse, the slow inevitable silence that creeps in and suffocates like desert heat.

The road is out of sight and her shirt is plastered with sweat by the time she crests a final dune and brings the engine to a halt. She cracks the door and enjoys the momentary wash of coolness as the wind flicks across her damp skin, greedily drinking of her body’s moisture.

She digs out a bottle of water from a pocket of her suitcase and forces herself to drink it slowly as she looks out across the landscape. The sun is past its highest point, but it won’t be dark for a few hours yet. She leans back into the sticky, cheap vinyl of the seat, allowing the water to roll around in her dry mouth before she swallows. She takes another sip, and nearly spits it onto the dashboard.

In the distance, something is moving, a dark spot on the monochrome of the sand, low and creeping. It reflects sunlight from every gleaming edge. A chill goes up her spine.

Not human, not even human-made.

She remembers the stories, Lennox and his crew. Whispers of horror, shifting beneath the sands, claws that rip and shred, until Ironhide gives their nightmare a name.

Scorponok.

Her hand flies to her phone on instinct. She still has the means to contact them; Optimus had insisted she retain that minimal power. Too dangerous otherwise, he’d said. Possible that the Decepticons would ignore her, but equally likely that she would remain a target.

She hesitates. Even if she calls now, there will be a crucial delay before anyone can reach her. Can she pull back? Slip away to civilization and bring down the power of the military on his head? Can she even outrun him if he notices her?

He’s moving slowly, leaving a distinctive patterned track behind him, bisected by the line left by his tail, which is curled over his back.

He’s injured, she realizes. The large, deadly telson is missing, a ragged stump in its place. His armor is pockmarked from the remains of sabot rounds, dark pits marked out in bright steel.

A memory wells up, Ratchet, working on the broad curve of one of Ironhide’s cannons while the weapons specialist gulps oil from a barrel. _“We can take in energy from solar radiation, convert it to energon in our bodies. It’s fine for daily operation, but repairs require more energy than we can get from the sun, not to mention materials.”_

Scoponok has stopped moving and is resting on the sand. She traces the tracks back to where they disappear between the dunes. They seem aimless, a wandering path.

Or a searching one.

A symbiote, Ironhide had said. Sentient, but linked to one of the larger Decepticons. A partner.

She doesn’t need to be told what happened to his.

Something strange twists in her chest; he’s been left behind too.

It’s crazy and illogical, that second of sympathy, but she still glances back. The jugs of fuel are just visible, nestled in the open trunk.

_There’s no way I can honestly be considering this._

But she’s already slipping from the seat, popping the hatchback of the car and hauling the canisters free. They tug at her arms, pulling her off balance as she slips along the dunes.

She has to be cautious. Even without his stinger, those broad, three-pronged pedipalps can tear her to bits in a second.

A twitch of legs which lift that low body from the sand let her know she’s been spotted. She’s got the high ground, but that won’t make a damn bit of difference if he wants to catch her.

The claws come up.

She flings one of the canisters with all her strength. The white jug bounces down the curve of the dune, tumbling into his path. His tail jerks forward in reflex and he skitters back a step or two. The canister rolls to a halt.

She doesn’t move. Neither does he.

Summoning all her courage, she licks her dry lips and calls out. Ironhide had called him sentient, and it’s of tactical advantage to know an enemy’s language; there’s a good chance he can understand her.

“That’s for you. Fuel.”

The claws twitch at the sound of her voice, but he remains in place.

“I know you probably won’t believe me, but it’s not a trick. I’ve got another container; you can have them both. I’m going to send it down, is that alright?”

No response, but she takes the lack of immediate hostility as permission and tosses the second canister. It tumbles down the dune and slides to a halt near his left claw.

After what seems like an eternity the claw reaches out and drags the jug in close. A sharp crack as chelicerae puncture the thick plastic and she can see the slight pulsation of his body as he drinks.

The canister is soon empty and he turns to the second one. She remains still as he drains it before speaking again, trying to keep her voice from shaking.

“See? No tricks. I’m going to go now, is that okay?”

He’s still silent and she starts to back away slowly. Five steps, he still hasn’t moved.

Ten steps.

She turns back towards her car.

The shush of sand is her only warning before weight slams into her, knocking her off her feet. Scrape and burn of grains on her bare arms and she twists beneath her attacker, bringing her hands up to shield…

Several breathless seconds later she realizes he’s _not_ ripping her to pieces. With the deafening sound of her own heart in her ears, she peers up at him.

She’s tucked between his claws, staring up into that alien face, chelicerae literally inches away. Four red optics twist and shutter, focusing on her.

She doesn’t dare breathe.

A flicker of green light blinds her for a moment and she can’t hold back a flinch before she realizes what he’s doing. Scanning, he’s scanning her.

Whatever his scans tell him, it must sum up to _not threat_ because that huge body lifts away and up, the rapid skitter of his legs throwing up sand as he lurches over her, so close she can feel the radiant heat of sternites warmed by the sun. Shaking, she rolls over. She’s lost her glasses in the tumble, but she can still see the dark spot of him moving across the sand, heading for…

Her car.

He mounts the white structure, body curling as he covers it. Huge chelae come up and then the car seems to literally open up beneath his claws. He rips the hood away, making for the vital engine parts. Oil sprays dark across the sand.

He’s _eating_ it, she realizes.

It takes barely ten minutes before the cannibalism is complete and the car is a handful of spare parts scattered across the sand. Remnants of seat stuffing and a few white metal sheets. He’s consumed almost everything. 

It’s completely inane, but all she can think is, _Fuck, my suitcase was in there._

A second, more pressing thought intrudes, _How the hell am I going to get back?_

It’s a legitimate worry. Even if he’s decided she’s not scorpion chow, she’ll collapse from heat exhaustion long before she can make it to civilization.

Cautious, she climbs to her feet. Her skin is red and tender from contact with the sand, but her legs are steady beneath her. Miraculously, her headscarf has remained in place. Tugging it forward in an attempt to shade herself, she squints her eyes against the sun and makes for where the Decepticon is picking through the remains of the vehicle. Maybe one of her water bottles survived the carnage.

Despite his apparent dismissal of her, the large tail still arches up at her approach. She concedes to the threat display and edges her way around the radius of the damage, scanning for anything that looks familiar. And then she spots it, tucked beneath the twisted remains of what was once the front passenger door: a spot of dark fabric.

Startled, she forgets the danger for a second and hurries over, digging her hands beneath the metal and heaving up.

It’s her suitcase alright, and mostly intact to boot, though a long jagged slice gapes near the top zipper. But through the slit she can see her water bottles, like gleaming blue jewels. Shaking, she drops to her knees beside it and pulls one free and the taste of sun-warm water is life and love and everything beautiful in the world. The pounding ache of the sun recedes and she becomes aware of her visitor again.

Scorponok has approached while she’s been digging through her suitcase and is crouched a few feet away. His tail is still curled over his back, but it’s not erect any longer. The jagged tip gleams with grey fluid, _nanite repair solution_ a droning, instructive voice from her memory informs her.

Ratchet was right.

Maybe it’s the sun making her crazy, but she can’t hold back a grin, “Feel better?”

Chelicerae click together, but he doesn’t answer, though she thinks she can detect a bit of curiosity in his posture.

“Why did I do it?” She shrugs, “Let’s just say, I know how it feels to be left behind.”

Optics click and shutter and he inches closer. She’s tempted to put out her hand, as she might for a stray dog, but the radiant heat from his plating warns her off.

“So, now what?”

He closes the gap between them, bit by bit and she gives ground, leaning back until her shoulders contact the sand and her legs are stretched beneath him. It should feel claustrophobic, this narrow space between metal and earth, but instead it feels familiar. She knows this space; she goes here every time someone brings in a car to the garage. 

He’s half over her, his first set of legs planted by her torso, pedipalps curved around either side of her head. The sand burns through the back of her shirt. And then the plating of his belly shifts and retracts and her mind stalls out.

She’s seen them before, once or twice, only for an instant, the gleaming spheres of energy that serve as heart and power source and soul all in one. It’s bright and blinding and has that same brilliant blue flash she saw when Optimus opened his chest on the battlefield in willing sacrifice.

A demonstration of vulnerability.

Trembling, she reaches out to touch.

Her fingers brush the corona and the desert vanishes.

Her first coherent thought is that Ironhide was right. Scorponok _is_ sentient. Nothing non-sentient could be this complex.

He’s burrowing in, sifting through her emotions with almost laughable ease, sorting and cataloguing nerve impulses while her own mind is still reeling before that ancient, vivid intelligence, latching onto feelings which match his own. Loneliness, sorrow, fierce determination.

He wants to understand. His encounters with the fleshlings have been typical of his interactions with organic prey. Never has a prey item approached _him_.

But then he finds what he’s really looking for. Images: the ocean, the crumpled shell of his partner, and the grief which wells up nearly suffocates her with its intensity.

_I’m sorry._

A swirl of sorrow, not an unexpected outcome, but unwished for nonetheless. Endless waiting for a partner who never returns.

Her own grief seems petty in comparison, but she offers it to him anyway, struggling to control and understand this connection between them.

It doesn’t hurt, this integration of minds, though some part of her feels like it should. In fact, it feels pretty, no scratch that, really, really good; half the soothing warmth of a hot drink on a cold day and half the sharp, tight coil of pleasure just before orgasm. A flicker of curiosity which changes gradually to smug, superior amusement flashes across her mind in response to her enjoyment. A momentary sense of rummaging and Scorponok flips some internal switch and the pleasure centers of her brain go supernova.

She comes to with the realization that the sun is setting and her underwear is damp. 

_Jesus, I think I just came._

_I just had, psychic…brain-sex with an alien._

She’s not entirely sure what to make of that.

Scorponok is still crouched above her, but now there’s a distinctly self-satisfied bent to his posture.

 _Go figure, no matter the species, males are always the same._ But she can’t help grinning, “Okay, you smug bastard, that was very nice, but in case you haven’t noticed, I’m still stuck in the middle of the desert.”

His optics shutter, considering. Giving into temptation at last, she reaches up and strokes the curve of one chelicera. The plating is warm, but no longer burning. He stills beneath her hands. She thinks of his partner, buried beneath the waves and something painful contracts around her heart.

It’s utterly mad, but she finds herself blurting out, “I was wondering if you might be in the market for a partner.”

His attention is entirely on her now. 

“How does it sound? Just you, me, the road?” Putting aside the problem of how she could take a giant metal scorpion with her; he is rather noticeable, “What do you think?”

A long silence and her stomach drops out beneath her, but then he’s moving slowly, backing up until he’s clear of her.

And he starts to transform.

It never occurred to her to wonder if he had an alt mode, but now, as she watches his body fold and condense into a sleek form, it makes sense. Scorpions are fast and maneuverable, but not as swift as a vehicle.

Plating settles into place and she gets a good look in the reddish light of the dying sun.

He’s a motorcycle, that much is clear, but thick and heavy, like no model she’s ever seen. Unpainted, the color of brushed steel, he sits low to the ground. He appears awkward at first, but something tells her that he’s faster than he looks.

He’s utterly still, waiting for her.

She fits herself into the saddle, slinging her suitcase behind her, hoping it will stay put. The bars are set low and far forward, but not uncomfortably so. He shifts beneath her, acclimatizing to her weight and then his engine roars and they lurch off across the sand.

She grips the bars and squints against the wind as it tries to tear the scarf from her head. He’s fast, swifter than any vehicle she’s ever ridden and adrenaline surges in her chest as he takes the crest of a dune at speed and they’re momentarily airborne.

It’s gone dark and he doesn’t engage any sort of headlight, but he seems to know the way, gliding like a shadow between the pale dunes. A bump, and then there’s asphalt beneath them instead of sand. He’s going the wrong way, the city is behind them, but she can’t bring herself to care. _Not sure if I could explain to that guy what happened to his car anyway._ and the thought is so absurdly funny that she finds herself laughing out loud, hysterical, eyes streaming from wind and sand and sadness.

The rumble of an engine beneath her, a query.

“I’m okay,” she has to shout over the scream of the wind. “In fact I think I’m going to be just fine.”

_Let us go to another country_  
 _Not yours or mine_  
 _And start again._  
 _The rest is understood_  
 _Just say the word._


End file.
